


Lolita

by LadyProto



Series: Lolita [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Ardyn is a creep, Backstory, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Coffee, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Dubcon, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Father-Daughter Relationship, Flowers, Gen, Grooming, I accept and expect scathing comments, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Iris looks a bit like Gentiana is all I'm sayin, Language of Flowers, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, Military Backstory, Military Family, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religion, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Underage Rape/Non-con, Victim Blaming, iris needs male validation, ptsd family dynamics, war family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: "I want you to examine this every detail and see for yourselves how careful, how chaste, the whole wine-sweet event is when viewed with impartial sympathy."((In which Ardyn contemplates his obsession with Gentiana, we are exposed to the backstory of their relationship, and Ardyn uses his skills of manipulation to lure Iris into his bed.))((Edit! With fanart links in the start of chapter notes!))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story no one asked for. 
> 
> I chose to write this in first person POV to 1) make the reader feel like Ardyn is pleading his case to them directly and 2) to follow the style of the source material. Remember Ardyn is an unreliable narrator and manipulates every situation to suit his egotism. First paragraph is from the book Lolita. Reminder that Lolita is not a love story but rather the tale of a man trying to justify his pedophilic and predatory attraction to a young girl by using psycho-babble to compare her to his childhood crush.
> 
> Lolita by Nabokov, Vladimir, 1955.
> 
> \--
> 
> (( FANARTS!!  
> ((Edit! Fanart! http://bunnybunnychan.tumblr.com/post/160349267880))

_All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do so._

Or at least that's the version I prefer to remember. Time is a liar, my crumbling brain moreso, but isn't that the natural course of things? I chose not to remember Gentiana’s broken swan neck under my shaking fingertips nor the cries of betrayal from her luscious mouth. The gods have caused such traumatic images to linger in my brain for far too long. No, I choose to remember her as she was in mortal life. Like the mountain flowers from which she took her name, she was the life that the barren world needed in their time of sickness. In our prayers, she was Shiva. In the public eye, she was the first of the Oracles. But in my arms, she was always Gentiana. And she is, was, and will forever be mine.

In all of my two thousand years there have never been two of the same snowflakes, nor in the next two thousand years would there ever be another Gentiana for me to claim. But Iris -- this little girl made of ivory and silver -- conjured up memories of another raven-haired flower, one from long long ago. If Gentiana had ever been a child, then Iris would have been her carbon copy. They shared such similarities that I feared her in that moment, as our eyes met, as a type of she-demon manufactured from my own personal hell. Much like her predecessor, her features were not as soft as one first expected, but sharply and firmly carved from terrifying natural elements. Only little Iris did not have the vibrant emerald eyes the same hue of lively mountain blossoms, but instead the blood-red stare of Ifrit himself. By one glance alone I saw her unworldliness -- she was quite a manipulative and terrible young thing, but such is the hellfire furnance of nymphets.

No, no, don’t get so hasty. I see your broadsword and I must say that I am not impressed. Iris came to me willingly, eagerly even. Her current state is as much your doing as it is mine. I had no intention of placing my affection on the little Kingshield, of that you must believe me. I've never claimed myself an innocent man, but predatory stalking of an underage girl has never been amongst my sins. I have no need to hunt and claim unsuspecting girls. I am still, despite enduring two millennia of hardships, an attractive man. No, it was Noctis I had watched. I idly sat viewing the prince-ling from a café, if one could call it that. It was a poor man’s recreation of the Altissian boutique-like coffee and wine bar set up. It was old Altissia debauching young Lestallum. Or was it young Lestallum debauching old Altissia? I won’t ponder the implications. I sat up there to ensure the Prince behaved. You should know better than anyone that Noctis needs to be micromanaged in order to fully play the part. 

I watched as the False King was escorted through the market stands by the little raven-haired girl. She tugged him through the fruit stall by his elbow, pointing out trinkets and girlish matters. I pitied her. Perhaps that was why I could not tear my eyes from her. To be spurned by royalty and love alike was a pain well known to my hollow heart. Noctis denied her without manners, hastily stammering out poorly feigned interest. Oh, how the royalty has fallen! He is not a king. He is a brat, undeserving of the spoils at his feet.

I wish you could have seen her crestfallen face when Noctis left her wanting and abandoned in the marketplace. If you had seen the sorrow in her posture, you would understand that what I’ve done to her was an act of mercy. She folded her dainty hands across her chest as if she were holding herself back from an embrace that had never been offered. She kicked her dainty little toes through the stone streets -- her glossy lips quivering in the pain of heartbreak. She rocked back and forth on her heels as she debated, on what I could only postulate. It has been a long time since my brain has been filled with frivolity, but perhaps dull-witted speculation would come easier to you, Sheild. 

Of course, fate would deliver the little Gentiana copy to my waiting arms. She chose the same café as I, and settled down with some overly-sugared beverage that young teens drink when they pretended to enjoy espresso. She didn't grab her phone immediately-- take note child-prince -- but instead opened her rather masculine messenger bag and took out a book to read. Her legs, her lovely silver-branch like legs, hardly reached the floor. Instead, she crossed her ankles and swung them to and fro, rocking herself as she pretended to read.

The book was adequate at hiding her near tearful sorrow at her recent heartbreak, but few things pass my perception. The King's Shield had fallen nearly as pathetically as the royal line it served. I saw every moment of unbridled passion as they painted her skin in rosy splotches. She had that tender complexion, that milk and honey hue that turned seashell-pink when she wept. Her wet matted eyelashes were so morbidly alluring. She bit her cherry lips from behind the book cover and tried to swallow her sounds. Her breathing fogged the air with a hot, heavy steam as she came undone, her bird-cage like ribs shuttering in repressed tears. A gentleman would comfort a young lady in a time of distress, but a gentleman is something I have never claimed to be. Instead, I watched from my separate realm, aching with the desire to claim her. You really should have taken it upon yourself to see her in her purest moments. Would it not be in any man’s heart to keep such a dear goddess’s facsimile in their possession? To make her wandering stray no longer?

Yet I remained until she had settled. She was at her weakest point then, already broken down from heartache, but not so needy that I would need to offer charlatan comfort. She dangled at the precipice, from which I would draw her towards me or push her over the edge once more. Her fate completely depended on whatever were to strike my fancy. I made a show of throwing away a napkin or some such, before hovering over her table. “May you do me the honor of accepting a drink from me, dear one?” I Inquired. 

You should have seen her, Gladiolus, I've learned to lower my voice to just the right velvet pitch. The two of us knew what she wanted. Girls like her are as transparent as glass. Her hidden little desires are so precious, really. Attention. validation. To be treated like an adult and not the awkward child she is. Brother, pay attention to me. Father, treat me as your child and not a nuisance. She's never had that, has she? Oh, I supposed I don't need to ask as your face is so indicative of the accuracy of my assumption. You cultivated her insecurities quite nicely, made her much easier to lure into my hotel room. Perhaps if you'd been present for more than a sliver of her life this wouldn't have happened.

But it did. She glanced up at me, red eyes rimmed in darkness. The color contrasted as beautifully as storms in the night sky. She tried to keep the book between us, playing the game of coyness. “Uh.. huh?” She stammered, so unused to being noticed. 

“A drink. A refill on your brew. Unless you'd like to start the evening early with wine.”

“No. Thank you, though. ” She smiled softly, eyes darting around, though I purposely stood at an angle to block her gaze from the rest of the coffee shop. I imagine her heart fluttered from my attention as her hands shook from uncertainty. It was so disgustingly childish in comparison to the poise of a goddess, though she kept her wits about her enough to not readily take candy from strangers. “...and I’m fifteen. I can't drink yet.”

“Surely not. My apologies, I mistook you for much older.” I feigned embarrassment as if her age wasn't evident from her juvenile clothing and girlishly bobbed hair. From her size, I judged her to be 16 at best, though you've shouted many times now that she's fifteen. I don't see how that matters, she clearly understood and presented her desires. She was still a child when I met her there, though I knew immediately she wished me to remove that burden from her. Her shape showed the beginnings of womanhood but her costume jewelry and ribbon adornments betrayed her immaturity. Interesting how her schoolgirls' skirt lay not hemmed, but in tatters that fell above her knees. She didn't want innocence. She wanted adult sensuality and all the attention attached. I had a reputation to uphold and I would not leave a girl wanting. “You're so very mature in your literary pursuits.” I tapped my fingers to the book between us. Paperback. Gentiana had written scriptures. This was a dime store find for a dime store girl. 

She smiled, mouth parting a fraction of a centimeter with delight and I remembered once again why I chose her. That sweet smile, that unbridled delight. That was my Gentiana. Her lips curled so genuinely shy and sweet that I felt the same tenderness I did thousands of years ago. That smile is still burned into my psyche like a brand, identifying me as the slave to the goddess that I only once had the chance to claim. I swear to you, I saw butterflies escape from her upturned lips. Her pretty little girl-flesh existed solely to remind me of that unwillingly consummated love between a former king and his oracle-goddess. “Lolita? Oh! You know it! My brother says it's not a proper book for me to read in public but I told him it was better than Lady Chatterley.” She grinned mischievously as a prancing fae would. 

I assured her that “Both are unmitigated classics.” Imagine my horror and delight! How nice to see the little shield so well acquainted with what was to come. I quoted to her a passage of the book I felt most fitting for our meeting. “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.” 

She gawked and swooned at the words. Her quivering doe eyes illuminated from the honey-tinged poison. Her tears had dried but the aftermath of sloppy sobbing still stained her cheeks. “That's my favorite line! Such a strong way to start such a romantic story.”

“Romance, hm?” She was such a tease, construing novelists' depictions of rape and kidnapping as love. For a moment, I doubted that it would even be fulfilling with a girl so willing. She knew what she wanted, and If I knew any woman or god, she would delight in my downfall. But, unbeknownst to her, I had already paid my wages for sin. But know this: I never once forced myself into her space but she invited me in with cautious warmth. I promise you, I never once assaulted her nor betrayed her trust, but rather, I had her beg for my touch in the way Gentiana never did. “Tell me, what is your name, dear one?”

She lowered the book further. I took my invitation. She didn't flinch. If anything, her slender body welcomed me as she leaned back into her chair. Her shoulder blades raised towards the incurvation of her spine in order to open her chest as an invitation to my eyes and mouth. I sat with her. “I'm Iris.” She excitedly revealed the information I already knew. “Nice to meet you!”

“Iris.” She spoke her name with full, round syllables from her strawberry mouth. Ea-ris. Not the eye-ris, like the lazy tongue of common folk. Little Iris, the handmaiden and personal messenger of an actual goddess. Little Iris, the child of the Electra Complex. The easy to bruise and easy to breed lowly Iris. How appropriate. This was ordained fate, so I'm sure you can find no fault in how I ghosted the back of my fingertips across her cheek. “Beautiful. The flower on the tombstones of virgins. It conveys images of lost love and silent grief.”

“You know all that about my name?” She blushed, turning away from my hand. She tried to cover the area of contact with her palm, spreading her long white fingers over her face in embarrassment. She had painted her fingernails a cruel pink glitter several weeks before if the chipping was an indication. 

Was this a test? A chance for redemption? Or was this shiny new flower the Astral’s gift, a payment for what they did to me and my kingdom? I spurned the gods long ago but it would be a lie to say religious thoughts never touch my brain from time to time. No. I've made my peace. There's no divinity in this This flower-nymph Lolita, pale and polluted by the crown city. But really, what would it be to me to play a game of cat and mouse with memory? Every great king had a weakness for little nymphets with skin as white as snow and hair as black as coal. “I have a fondness for certain flowers. Gentiana is the most breathtaking, but it's rare to find these days, though sometimes I make do with others.”

“Make do…? Are you a type of florist?”

“I'm a cultivator, you could say. I make flowers do my bidding."


	2. Chapter 2

I expect the answer to be obvious, but still I must ask: do you know anything about flowers? Oh, I thought not, despite you bearing the name of the sword-lily. You're much too boorish to be bothered with delicate things. Shall I tell you how to groom an Iris, then? 

I suffer not the tawdry likes of touch-me-nots and birds of paradise, nor do I entertain the licentiousness of Gerber Daisies and other promenade boutonniere adornments. I think I’ve made it clear that I prefer the bell-shaped vibrancy of Gentiana, but its cultivation and propagation has always eluded me. But the Iris -- you see there's a special thing you must do to Irises. They need to be controlled and trained. I would need to take the congested clump of mediocre blossoms and pull the wayward rhizomes apart by hand. With sharp wit and a sharp knife, the kind florist would expose an Iris’s very base and slice them to the core. It is then that I would send the unneeded parts to the rubbish and I would finally be allowed to embrace the softly-scented parts of her that I desired.

As she sat across from me in that dreary little cafe, I decided which parts suited me. Which parts of this vulgar blossom would I allow to be my second ascension? The slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of her downy limbs, that was my Iris, the mischievous little fae-child. But what I desired most was for the tightly curled rose bud of her lips to unfurl into silky, deep blush as she called my name. I would see the little Gentiana reach out for me with the most pained expression of need that I could neglect or fulfill at my leisure. I’d seen that incomparable poignant bliss only once before, but it replayed a thousand times over in the throes of my most pollutive dreams. 

But I refused to relegate another night to memory. I am more than capable of plucking the harlot-red rose from every Lilith, to break the fragile glass stems of the unsuspecting Mary Magdalene, but I demanded my Eve. I would not bend to whims of another false king and his court, so be thankful she kneeled so well on her own. I believe I deserve praise for being so tender with her. I could have easily given her to the Nifs to pass around; if only I'd been more comfortable with seeing the likeness of Gentiana being abused in such a way. Do you wonder how MTs treat the gardens in which they plant their flags? I shall say they are much less concerned with preservation of the tender, newly-opened blossoms. Instead of allowing Iris to sleep peacefully in her own hotel bed, an MT would have left those spoiled blooms shriveling in the sun, cracking dry and papery at the slightest breeze.

No, despite what you may think of me, despite what scathing comments you pin to me during your fire-side communes, know that I did not use force to have my way. Iris wanted to love me. Her cautiously hopeful eyes reflected her starvation for tender touches from the fingertips of a kind, older man. Soft white forbidden flesh peeked coyly from royal black garments, begging for a lingering glance, a moment of attention from some strong established king. Two thousand years of progress may have afforded her slightly more personhood, but she'd undoubtedly been cast to the side. She was the second born, hailed not as an heir but the pointless resource drain of the family line. She hungered for warm intimacy, any type of praise for her mediocrity. 

I weaved a crown of honeysuckle-sweet words and adorned her hair with them. “Your wit is so sharp.” “Your eyes are so lovely.” Little, throwaway phrases that ensured Iris would be a good girl for me. She bent so well to my will, took so kindly to my violation that she didn’t even ask my name until my hand was on her knee. I pondered a bit, debating if she'd heard enough of your stories to recognize me, though she would later confirm my suspicions that you rarely speak more than a few words at a time to one another despite her attempts to keep the family ties strong. I debated even more deeply if her knowledge of you and I would change her opinion of me. I decided she would not know me, nor care, as I'd already given her so much. “Izunia. Ardyn Izunia.” 

With formalities out of the way, I became more direct in my cultivation. I perused the menu under guise of my own thirst, though honestly doing so only served to irritate me. Why do I bother searching through bastardized locations for things of quality? Château Cheval Blanc, Château Lafite Rothschild -- how I miss the vintages of old Costa del Sol. But this was not a wine for me, I was looking for something palatable to such a perfectly petal-soft yet unsophisticated small tongue. I ordered some fruity number, high in alcohol and low in flavor profile. “Are you sure I can’t indulge you in a glass of wine? It’s getting rather late for another round of espresso.” 

“I really shouldn’t….” She hesitated, though I saw the guilt in her eyes. She wanted to be a tease, to say no, but she couldn’t. Not when I’d already done everything right. In that moment, I may have been the man of no consequence, but I was the man who had treated her better than her own family. “You know, my brother wouldn’t be very happy to see me taking a drink from a stranger.”

“Well it's good we are not strangers then.” When the waiter was out of sight, I pushed the glass of wine over to her. I challenged her with my eyes, daring her to prove her worth and her womanhood. “Tell me about your brother. Does he have you on a child’s curfew too?”

Now, that bit of conversation may hold your interest. Iris told me a great many stories about you, Gladio -- may I call you that? She called you “Gladdy” in her last pure moments but I am not so presumptuous to assume we share that level of familiarity. You have had quite the influence on her, lboth good and bad. As we sat and I dissected her, your name came up often. Dearest brother Gladiolus, tickling her tummy before bedtime. Dearest brother Gladiolus, instructing her in ways of violence and fear. Dearest brother Gladiolus, throwing punches at the walls in fits of showy masculine anger towards some inconsequential riff-raff. 

Do you know what was left behind during your angry and obsessive march alongside your predestined and ill-fated Prince? You left **_her_**. The little Iris playing war with her fashion dolls, holding mock funerals for plastic figurines in pink high heels. Little Iris taking up the heavy, adult-sized mantle of peace-keeper because her family fell apart from war-stress and neglect. And Iris, my sweet Iris, hiding from the vases you threw in a fit of anger towards your dear father. She remembered it all as clear as day, and she mourned that loss of childhood silently. She told me she would often hole herself up in room when the men of the family fought. Did you ever think about her? A little Iris unallowed to bloom, hugging her knees and trying to remain as silent as possible when she heard your footsteps outside of her door. You see, I know the price of the covenant with Kings. It's the slow madness called paranoia, the inability to distinguish friend from foe. Did your father think you the enemy? Did you think _her_ the enemy? I can imagine your repressed smiles when she walked through hellfire to please you, or that surge of power when you saw her tears. I believe that makes both you and I alike, dear Gladio. When the world cruelly takes everything away, we both seek beauty in the broken. And she is quite beautiful when she's raw and wanting.

She told me that after those tense-filled moments she would creep out later to cover the holes in the wall with tapestries. I wonder, did you notice her there? She still loves you dearly, though I can’t fathom why. She spilled this darkened memory out so easily, I can’t help but wonder what other delicious things could have been pried from deep within her had I only put more energy into doing so. No, I told you once before, I had no intention of courting dear Iris. Honestly, her other stories were disgustingly conventional for a little girl. Boybands, glittered nail polish, ice cream floats with little chocobo sprinkles, fashion magazines and so forth—these were the obvious items in her list of beloved things. She began to describe her personhood and juvenile frivolities and I politely indulged her deep longing for attention and I supplied her with yet another glass. She could speak to me for hours if she so wished. What was time to me?

She took several sips of wine, then several sips more. As I expected, there was no modesty in her mouth; she drank much too fast. I assume your delinquent Prince must have introduced her to the culture of celebratory binge drinking as a way to profligate money that isn't his and time he doesn't have. Or was it your father that nursed whiskey to calm the persistent shadowed memories? No matter the reason, she equated taking absentminded sips as a mark of adulthood and continued to do so until there was the barest touch of blur around her gaze. Her mind took on a fuzzy soft quality, like a puppy showing its soft underbelly. Her ifrit-eyes were now moist under her dark lashes, bright contrast like the markings of flora and fauna to attract mates. Or was it perhaps to warn? “Now, about your literary pursuits. I have a first edition of Lolita back in my hotel room that you may inspect if you so wish.”

She declined. What a clever lass, though I believe the sound of her own words frightened her. She, a shield, had just disobeyed a suggestion by a king! It shocked her perfectly coiled DNA. She stood up, hitting her knees on the table in her haste. I think some part of her wanted to run, to spirit away in pollen and dust like a flower in flight. Though if she would force me to give chase, she would lose. “But it's getting late, I really should get home. I'm sure my --” she nearly said friends, but stopped herself as her teeth scraped the purple mulberry tint off her wine-stained lips. She was alone and discarded by the lot of you. We both knew there was no one in all of Lestallum that would miss her presence. You and your Prince were off on a fool's. She was alone. She was mine.

“I'm sure someone's waiting for me.” Her cheeks went hollow and her large doe eyes quivered. For a moment, I pitied this poor gutter girl, this orphaned refugee with her destroyed girlhood and stunted emotions. It took only a moment for that angelic line of thought to be erased. I overtook my prey and she was my Gentiana again.

She was alone. And she was mine. 

“Anyways, I appreciate it, Mr. Izunia. You've been so nice to me today, really. I can't thank you enough. Let me pay you back. Gladdy wouldn't want me to be a debtor.”

“It has been my utter delight. Your company has been payment enough.” I assured her. I truthfully did not care if it were to be at my place or not. If she'd rather the fated act take place at her domain, at her safe place, then so be it. I placed my hand on the small of her back and took up her bag, though I let her keep her paper-back book as a fig leaf. “May I walk you back at least? You never know what predatory things roam about after dark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to have one last chapter where he gets her in the hotel room. It was suggested to me that I should write a chapter or so from Iris's POV for clarification. What do you think?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a mentally and emotionally draining writing exercise. Writing Ardyn’s wavering mental state has been hard for me from a technical viewpoint. On one hand he hates Iris, but on the other he wants to violently reclaim his goddess. Also I need to add that writing from a rapist’s POV is very very hard. His actions should not be taken in a sympathetic light, as he is an unreliable narrator. 
> 
> Besides the obvious trigger warnings of humiliation, dominance and non-con, there's also the fact that Ardyn makes it abundantly clear that he is aware that Iris is underage.
> 
> Please enjoy the sour fruits of my labor.

Let's drop this pretense, Gladio. I don't desire fancy prose or complicated turns of phrase to soften this blow. I fucked Iris. I took the parts of her that I wanted, laid claim and discarded the rest. That is my semen anointing her skin and lips. That is my thumbprint on her neck. She was a victim to the gardener’s paradox -- I had groomed a flower until it was at its most pleasing, only to snap the stem and ruin her forever.

Initially, I fulfilled my promise of delivering Iris unscathed and untainted to the hotel lobby. I made sure that every half-witted attendant saw me treat her with the respect so ill-befitting of such a wayward little girl. She sang my praises and I had her repeat it like a chorus in ear shot of the hotel staff. They would not investigate her screams if I displayed my kindness so clearly. 

“Thanks again, Mr. Izunia! You've really been great!” Despite lavishing me with compliments just moments earlier, Iris made an attempt to flee up the stairwell. She managed to place one shaking foot on the first step before I latched onto her, constricting the weak muscles of her upper arm until she bruised. I pulled my prey to face me, her body obeying without a thought. “Mr. Izunia, I really should be going -” Her eyes widened, red, glossy and fearful like a rabbit cowering in the corner of its hutch. I'm sure her shield-training flashed in her head for a moment, but there was nothing she could do. Even though she was perched a step above me, we were not standing as equals. Iris was as hollow and delicate as bird bones -- great for quick and light movements, but easily broken and caged. Once she was pinned, once I had clipped her feathered wings, her fate would be surrendered to the gods. Unfortunately for her, there were no gods besides me in that hotel lobby and I would not be kind when I took her to the altar. 

I commanded the stormy atmosphere to calm as I released her. Pulling my body away, I gave her a sweet taste of the autonomy that she would soon lose. An illusion of choice was presented to her. She could have easily side stepped around me, but it would have profited her nothing. Where would she run? She was a lone child, an absolute waif with no home left standing to await her return. Her only living relative was an emotionally distant brother who had abandoned her in favor of an adolescent road trip. No, Iris would not deny me after I had fulfilled her heart's desire for a moment of attention, kindness,a non-violent touch. So of course she stayed. She looked up at me with soft eyes that pleaded for gentle reconciliation. She was still a girl expecting the men in her life to lash out at her smallest sins. Fortunately for her, I was merciful. When I spoke to her in gentle tones she became even more compliant . When I asked her for a drink of water to quell the effects of the wine I had not touched, she nodded solemnly, accepting her fate. 

Like a good servant, she stayed at the heel of her king as we made our mournful climb to the abject room. She did not deny me as I pushed my way into her domain. In fact, through everything she serviced me with a hesitant smile, even though what she had to give was subpar. As she slipped away into the small kitchenette, I saw how little she had to offer a King. I surmised she couldn't rescue many personal effects when she escaped Insomnia. What she had in her room was mostly consignment shop finds: dog-eared paperback books from authors with no acclaim, jeans with heart-shaped fadings in the knees, a poorly-stocked sewing kit stored in an old jar. She truly was a little orphan. No wonder it only took thirty silver pieces of gil to buy her soul.

There was a single decoration in her temporary shelter: a photograph of the flower children, Iris and the Sword-Lily, linked arm and arm in front of the now destroyed Citadel. There used to be flowers in that garden, but without Gentiana’s presence, all that remained were the weeds. Despite her meager offerings, I could still recognize some rudimentary bits of her predecessor. The mole along her collarbone. The dark long lashes against her snowy cheeks. In the photograph, Iris had only a thin sleeveless dress to hide her chest from my eyes, but nothing could hide her from the gaze of my memories. I saw again, her lovely indrawn abdomen where my southbound mouth had briefly paused; those hips in which I had left the imprint of my hands. It had been… some while since the day I tasted her, but at last this mad immortal would be granted some reprieve from his suffering. This was not the fresco I had obsessed over for a millennia, but a crude 32mm exposure taken by your gunman. It had been taken recently, but was already over-handled. Pitiful how once things are touched, they are ruined forever. But still, seeing sunshine in Iris’s raven hair beckoned me to caress the graven images with tenderness. I thought of placing the photo face down, but I decided that the image of her dearest brother should be allowed to watch.

Iris timidly stepped back into the main room, holding a meager offering of tap water in mug with a cat face painted onto the weak ceramic. Her eyebrows knotted in apprehension as she warily watched me manhandle her possessions. “Mr. Izunia, I -”

I turned to her sharply, not allowing her words to form. Our size disparities were even more apparent as my shadow overtook her. Her elfin features turned downward in worry as I neared her. Her gaze widened, the holy-white of her eyes fully muzzling the demonic-red. I knew what I would do to her, as did she. I wanted to have her, take her, so completely destroy her, and she – well, honestly, I didn't care what she wanted. I saw my Gentiana to claim. I had so much left to rightfully take from her. Gentiana, who taught a young healer how to swallow the darkness. Gentiana, whom stirred unchaste thoughts from a king. Gentiana, whom denied me of the ascension I deserved. “Please call me Ardyn. I detest Izunia.”

I kissed her. She dropped the cup. Pretenses shattered. Sins puddled like the water at our feet. I overtook her completely, pulling her body closer to me. Her chest shuttered like a dying bird, ribs weak and desperately gasping. Her small stature forced me to crane her neck at an unnaturally sharp angle to fully capture her. She didn't kiss back, but took small sips of me, fake piety displayed in the soft movement of her lips. It wasn't enough. I kissed her more deeply, forcing her to do more than take me passively. The small of her back hit the door frame. She parted her mouth at impact. There was blood in her mouth from where she had chewed on her inner cheek. When it flowed into my tongue, marigolds and hydrangea sprouted. Peasant flowers. I spit them back out, letting the air rot them as they tumble to the ground. 

I moved away, causing her to shiver as my heat left her. She was left cold and stumbling in the dark without me. “Undress,” I commanded.

She didn't move at first. “Gladdy’s going to be back soon.” She whispered, sounding more like the words were to convince herself rather than to warn me. She and I both knew it was a bluff. She had been forgotten, forsaken, abandoned by the lot of you. She would be alone for her rest of her miserable life, floundering for someone to fill the unfillable. I had learned her inner most secrets within hours of meeting her. I had watched her bleed out emotionally from wounds that would never heal. Wounds that you caused, dear Gladio. I can see the regret in your face, but as the saying goes; it's too little and too late. I hope you had fun playing hero, because little Iris here has had quite a rough night. I had once been healer to the downtrodden such as her, but mercy is something I've grown tired of giving. I deserved to claim my reward, don't you agree? And so, I positioned myself in a chair between her and the door. One way in, no way out. I taunted your chronic absence. "Let him come. Now undress. Boots first.”

She trembled, but still walked softly forward to place one heavy boot on the side table. Her skirt slid up her thighs, teasing me with glimpse of precocious undergarments in harlot red lace. Slowly, she undid the elaborate buckles of her shoes then backed away from me again, eyes downcast in what I can only assume to be reverence. 

“Now the rest.” I prompted, removing my own scarf and coat. 

She didn't move. 

“The top.” I chided, using the tone of her angry household to force her into submission. “Remove it.”

Iris turned her face away from me. Her fists bunched around the hem of her shirt, closing and opening like the motion would force her heart to beat more steadily. Eventually, she obeyed. You see, I never rose from my chair, never forcefully ripped her garments from her body. She peeled away her own black shirt. The skirt followed. Then the bra for which she really had no need. Royal blacks and wanton reds laid discarded around her like a chrysalis. She was such a petite thing -- the details of her body were compact, neat and curiously immature. She stood bare and trembling like a silkworm, awaiting the day she would be boiled and unwound for the pleasure of royalty. “Mr.Iz -- I mean, Ardyn.” She whispered. “I don't want-”

“Shhh,” I grabbed her thin wrist and pulled her until she stood between my knees. In a perverse mockery of the scriptures, here I held the wrong flower in the wrong place, too many years too late. Vividly, I recalled when the walls were not so gray. When, instead of a dingy motel, I was seated in my castle. Every inch of the palace had been carved mahogany and handcrafted tiles. Every part of her had been soft and fully bloomed. On my throne of marble and jewels I held my shaking, dying flower. "Oh, don't tremble so." I used my fingertips to wipe away the tears as they welled. There was no Iris. There was no Izunia. There was only Ardyn and Gentiana, the oracle and the healer, the goddess and the messiah loving one another as it should have been. I circled her thighs, digging my fingernails into her backside until she parted her knees. With one arm, I held her close to me. With the other, I tainted the dear innocent flower with sensations she will crave for years to come. She made a feeble attempt to arch away from my touch, but I kept her gathered tightly to my chest.

Do you understand now? She came for me. I used my fingertips, still slick with her tears to push her to the brink and past. It was both dreamy and eerie how her tear stained face twisted half in pleasure and half in pain. Her bare knees caught and compressed my wrist as I kept my movements constant. Her hands tightened around my shoulders as her wetness dripped down my wrist. The scriptures say angels sing when a virgin ascends, but all I wrung from her was a high-pitched, strangled cry. Her eyebrows pinched together. Her chin quivered. It had been too much, too fast, too many times. She collapsed against me unable to stand unless I gave her permission. She laid so warm and flushed against my chest, but still I kept her under my control. I seized what had been promised to me until eventually, she had nothing left to give. It took so little for her to lose herself. She tried to murmur, tried to call out, maybe even to you dear Gladio, but there was no one to hear her but me. There was nothing she could do as she was too played out and used 

But I ask you, if a goddess is stronger than a man, why did she let me have her? When I took her into my arms, her stare was blurred and her body soft. She squirmed despite herself, too sensitive to be touched as I took her to my altar. I discarded the rest of my clothes as she whimpered. I spread her out, laying my hands across her fleece white skin. I would like to think I was easy with her, but it has been quite a while since I have entertained a young lady, so you will have to forgive a few bruises. There is a terrible one along her hip where I had to dig my fingers into her skin. She was too deep within her own mind to consciously fight against me, though her body tried desperately to reject what it did not deserve. Even though she dripped of dew-sweet wetness, she unconsciously clenched against me, heightening my enjoyment through her pain. The flower was too small to handle a king, but she performed her duty well. She didn't touch me, but instead laid back, allowing me to have easy access to any part of her flesh I wished to imbibe. You see, that is the glory of Shield girls. They are so easy and willing to give their bodies and minds over to their Kings. 

But the true paradise was her face. Gods, her face. It's the look Gentiana wore that day. I watched the entire time, feasting on the contortions as she tried to lock me out. Our sweat plastered her black strands against her furrowed brow as she fell further into the bedsheets. Her eyebrows drooped almost woefully as she gave the hot, flushed skin of her neck over to me. The Cupid bow of her upper lip pulled into the most perfect strawberry shape as she cried. I never stopped moving, no, not even when she begged. My dissolution was near. 

In the moment before the crisis, like a lighthouse through the haze, memory returned. After the daemons in my brain and the hunger in my body had fully consumed the oracle, I kept myself as one with her. I straightened her lolling neck and kissed the trellis of bruises along her collar. I gathered her into my arms, and our last nearly mute moans of humanity expired together. Despite thorny crowns and angels, despite the lyrical language of divine scriptures and the everlasting prophetic sonnets -- this was the true immortality that Gentiana and I shared. We were conjoined in the same desperate act that had united men with girls since time immemorial, and would continue to do so until the last couple disappeared from Eos. Here we were eternal in a way that divinity could not revoke. My lips kissed her tear stained cheeks as I gripped her hot, sticky thighs with my bloodied fingers. I claimed her three times, nigh upon consecutively. I had intended to have her on my lap, wantonly displayed when you walked in, but alas she had nothing else to give. My goddess had been expended once again.

But I do have one last thing to give you, Gladio. Your own illusion of choice of what will happen to the flower. This would be a perfect time to see where your loyalties lie. I know you’ve been gallivanting as a hunter for a bit now. In fact, we’ve only crossed paths because of particular assignment at this town's power plant. Yes, I know that. I know everything about you and your cohorts. I also know that Iris was only here because she wanted to gift Noctis some plush doll and gather the rest of her belongings. Quite serendipitous how things work out sometimes. 

I will give you two options. You may continue on your quest and slay the daemons that threaten to send the power plant into meltdown. That would satisfy your loyalty to “people and king” as it were. Or you could take your sister, thereby forsaking the duty you claim to have accepted for a slim chance of “saving” the already petalless flower. It's not a true choice, considering I'm already aware of how this will end. The ragged submission that runs in your DNA will have you running into the power plant before I can finish my next words. I will tend to my garden while you relegate your sister to secondary importance once more. 

So run along, play hero like a good boy. I'll have one more turn with Iris. I will use her body to reach my peak. My climax. My _**ascension.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned to do a last chapter from Iris's POV but I think I shall end it here

**Author's Note:**

> I accept and expect scathing comments at http://yourscientistfriend.tumblr.com


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